


500 Tumblr Followers Celebration

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 500 followers celebration, 500 word ficlets, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Boys Kissing, Don’t copy to another site, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Masturbation, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining, The Stag Night (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: A thank-you gift for my 500 followers on Tumblr, for putting up with my various shenanigans.This is a collection of five 500(ish)-word ficlets, written from prompts from five randomly selected followers. One chapter = one ficlet. Two of these ficlets are explicit, the others gen. Rating and prompt are noted in the beginning of each ficlet.





	1. Wasted Opportunities

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is rated Explicit.  
> For [fellshish](https://fellshish.tumblr.com/), who prompted: _write what happened in the jail cell after they were arrested on john’s stag night in tsot_.

The heavy metal door is bolted behind him. John scrunches his eyes shut for a moment against a spell of dizziness – yes, he’s still quite drunk, but the worst of it is lifting like a late morning fog.

He’s lucid enough to know where he is, and what happened. Clueing for looks. Got arrested. A prison cell. On his stag night. Great. Not.

Sherlock sits presently on the (only) narrow bed, elbows on knees, head bowed down, fighting off nausea. The cell is dimly lit, and the late night is quiet and unseasonably warm.

John takes a seat next to Sherlock. “Alright, Sherlock?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock moans in misery, a shake of his head making his inky curls bob softly. John nods in sympathy: Sherlock rarely drinks, and tonight they both went way beyond their limits.

And whose fault is that? Every time Sherlock turned his back, John spiked their drinks with shots of this and that. What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he done that?

 _Oh Watson, you know why._ If it hadn’t been for that nurse, Tessa… Always some nurse coming in between them. No, wait, _stop_. Mary isn’t ‘some nurse coming in between them’, she’s his future wife, and has been nothing but supportive of John and Sherlock’s friendship.

He spiked their drinks because he needed liquid courage.

He spiked their drinks because he wanted Sherlock. He wanted one last opportunity to tell him that… to tell him…

 _What a well thought-through plan, Watson, brilliant_ , John internally chastises himself. So, he was just going to tell Sherlock, what? That he’s groping his knee in hopes to grope something more? That he wanted to climb onto his lap and snog the living lights out of him? That he’s marrying Mary because Sherlock’s married to his work? That John loves Sherlock more than anyone else in this world? And then they would have sex and John would still go back to his fiancée in the morning?

John senses Sherlock’s gaze on him. To his surprise, Sherlock is staring at him wide-eyed, mouth open in disbelief. “J-John?”

“Yeah?”

“You… you want me?”

Oh _Christ_. John realises in his half-drunk stupor he had said all that out loud. Before he can retract anything, apologise, deny, Sherlock grabs him by the lapels and smashes their lips together in a bruising kiss. It’s desperate and feral and clumsy, coordination shot by inebriation, and John is fisting hands on those luscious curls and Sherlock _growls_ into his mouth, slides his hands down John’s chest, abdomen, rests them on John’s groin.

Beer and whisky and vodka and lust singing in their veins, the next minutes are a blur of hands on zippers, under trunk briefs, on smooth, hard flesh; of panting and moaning and kissing and biting and sweet, sweaty release.

The blur fades into the dark quiet of the night.

And the next thing John remembers is Lestrade striding into the cell with an unnecessarily loud “Wakey, wakey!”

What a wasted opportunity.


	2. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Gen.  
> For [elwinglyre](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/), who prompted: _How about Sherlock’s idea of a perfect kiss. Rating up to you_.

It will happen soon enough, I am sure.

John Watson will kiss me.

It’s been a long time coming. We have both had our share of obstacles to surmount. One would be fooled in believing the biggest of them all being John’s matrimony to Mary, or the dark period after her death. One would be wrong. The largest obstacles have been our own fears: of undeserving trust, of potential abandonment, of repressed desires.

We love each other. We have said so time and time again, in so many ways. Love is an amorphous concept, a shapeless creature felt and incarnated in the big and small events of shared lives. As a liquid or a gas, it must assume the shape of its container, fill the void with its molecules, permanently in movement. John and I have been building this container for years, yet its contents were elusive enough to give it a name.

But I digress. John will kiss me tonight. The thought fills me simultaneously with elation and terror.

Because it _has_ to be perfect. Our first kiss _must be perfect_.

But what is a perfect kiss? Which parameters define the success of a kiss?

I am a scientist and will therefore approach the issue in a scientific matter. Research.

What constitutes a kiss? A close-lipped peck is not the same thing as a saliva-exchanging twirl of tongues. I am very much hoping for something resembling the latter rather than the former, so let us focus on this particular subtype.

The thought of exchanging microbial oral flora should fill anyone with enough horror to never kiss again. Did you know there are around seven hundred species of bacteria and fungus living as biofilms plastered around in diverse cavities of the mouth?

Better not to think about that. Ignorance can be bliss, after all. Best to concentrate on the mechanics.

First, there should be the right pressure of lips on lips. Too light a touch and it might be considered unwelcome; too hard, and it will reek of desperation. Sadly, I am unable to find any scientific publication on the exact newtons per square metre (a.k.a. pascals; I stick to S.I. units, obviously) to apply. This will have to be empirically determined.

Then, there should be a slide of lips so that there is alternation between top and lower lip from both participants. Mental note: apply previous lubrication to lips. This step seems overwhelming; in which direction should the participants move to maximise coverage and pleasure? There is also no data on this, I need data!

A gentle hand on my shoulder shakes me out of my mind palace. John. Oh no, he’s applying lubrication to his lips, he’s going to kiss me now, I am not prepared, I have not gone through all the steps, I—

Oh.

I am an imbecile and John is a genius. Apparently, I forgot to account for the most important parameter: _the loved one_. Science be damned. The perfect kiss must include John Watson.


	3. Chili-spiked Latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Gen.  
> For [stupendouspickleeggkid](https://stupendouspickleeggkid.tumblr.com/), who prompted: _Maybe a coffee shop AU? I really love those. A first meeting/Coffee shop AU would be perfect_.

_Sherlock’s_ is a popular coffee shop.

This is in part due to its location, around the corner from Imperial College and a handful of popular museums and attractions in the heart of South Kensington. More importantly, _Sherlock’s_ is known for its unusual coffee concoctions, carefully chosen beans, and its disconcerting owner.

Because Sherlock, winner of several World Barista Championships, genius creator of sublime signature beverages, is also a bit of an arse.

Not that he does it on purpose, he ponders while brewing a double espresso with his second-best beans for an exhausted biology student (obvious, look at her backpack and the mismatched earrings). While Sherlock enjoys his job due to its experimental nature and the unlimited amounts of caffeine, how is he to pass the time if not by trying to deduce his clients lives and habits? Making coffee is hardly an intellectual activity.

As he dispatches the student, a man walks in and catches Sherlock’s attention. Not a student, not a tourist. The man walks cautiously up to the counter and peers through the list of beverages, lips apart and brow furrowed in bewilderment. Even Sherlock admits to himself he does go overboard with the number of new drinks he creates. Fortunately, there is a lull in clientele now, so while the man tries to decide on what to order, Sherlock takes his time to examine him.

Oh, but the man is _fascinating_.

“I recommend the chili-spiked latte. The strength of the chili will appeal to your thirst for danger, and the milk will give you that soothing finish. Adequate for an ex-army doctor.”

The man gawks at him. “H-How did you…”

“Elementary,” and Sherlock knows he should shut up, but he can’t help it, “you have a military stance but favour one leg, suggesting you’ve been wounded in combat. Tan lines on your neck and wrists – your face and hands are tanned but not from sunbeds or holidays abroad. The pin on your lapel? The Rod of Asclepius. You’re a doctor who has been long enough in the army to get that tanned and then injured. Conclusion: an ex-army doctor. My only question is,” he raises a dramatic eyebrow, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock scolds himself internally – the most interesting man (and handsome, too…) passing through his door in _ages_ , and he has to open his enormous mouth and deduce the living lights out of him. Surely, the man will turn around and leave.

Instead, he breaks into a laughter so carefree Sherlock is taken aback.

“Afghanistan,” he replies. “That was… amazing.”

“…You think so?”

“Yes, quite extraordinary. John Watson,” and he stretches a hand to Sherlock, who shakes it in a daze.

“Sh-Sherlock Holmes. That’s… not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“‘Piss off’,“ but Sherlock is smiling back and before he can think better he’s adding “I’m closing in half an hour. Dinner?” Oh lord, why does he think John will accept?

John’s eyes twinkle in amusement; he licks his lips.

“Starving.”


	4. Their Next Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Gen.  
> For [the-reading-lemon](https://the-reading-lemon.tumblr.com/), who prompted: _John surprises Sherlock with an engagement puppy because just a ring is boring_.

John twirls the small wooden case in his hands. Around him, Hyde Park blooms into an early Spring; there is a calm emanating from the Serpentine, pushing away the distant traffic noise; the odd squirrel hops over a path, the bleak sun peeks through wispy clouds. He sits on an old bench that sighs every time he fidgets.

And John is fidgeting a lot.

He holds the case straight and opens it again, brushes his fingers over the two rings lying on the satin lining. Palladium, a soft brushed finish, a small diamond well-embedded to not catch on gloves and such.

John knows for sure their lives are forever entangled, and that this is simply their next adventure. The affirmation of a love so deep, a connection so strong, a promise so unbreakable, worth so much more than the five thousand quid resting on his hands.

John has no doubts about popping the big question. At first, he thought Sherlock would not want to get married, that he would ridicule the ceremonial aspect of it all. But, with time, John, who has learned a thing or two about deductions from the world’s only consulting detective, detected the slightest of doubts, the faintest of sorrows, the hint of fear every time they talked about their future.

It finally dawned on John that after all they had gone through, Sherlock still feared John would leave him.

It was time to burn those fears down to the ground.

What is dogging John now, though, is how inadequate an engagement ring feels. This symbol of possession is out of place in a relationship anchored firmly on mutual trust and respect. What John needs to do is show Sherlock he is _committed_ , that he listens to his wishes, and—

John gasps. _That’s it!_

He knows exactly what to do now.

\--

Sherlock hears John’s steps up the stairs and gets up from his armchair – it sounds like John is carrying something heavy.

“Stay where you are.” John’s voice is muffled by the closed door.

Sherlock halts in the middle of their living-room as John shuffles in with… oh. Oh! Before he can stop himself, Sherlock is reaching for the Irish Setter puppy squirming in John’s arms. “John! Oh!” He buries his nose in the soft chocolate fur and lays a hand on the puppy’s neck to avoid the worst of the inevitable frantic licking on his face.

And that’s when he feels it.  A small jewel box attached to the collar.

It can’t be, it’s not possible that John wants…

The grin on John’s face answers all his questions. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he starts.

“Yes!” Sherlock interrupts. When has he ever been a patient man? His other hand reaches for John’s nape and brings their mouths closer. The puppy jumps down on the floor and runs around the room, oblivious to the monumental shift in their lives. “Yes,” Sherlock whispers into John’s mouth, “yes,” he repeats breathlessly, “a thousand times yes. My darling John.”


	5. These Are My Unspoken Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated Explicit.  
> For [immaculate-benediction-batch](https://immaculate-benediction-batch.tumblr.com/), who prompted: _Explicit for sure. I want a John pining for Sherlock. I want him just longing to touch him. And then finally he cant stand it and does something about it. Good times!_

”It’s all fine”  
_I ruined it._

 

“I hope not.”  
_I hope so._

 

“Sherlock, run!”  
_I care._

 

“Do you ever reply?”  
_Why her?_

 

“You were wrong.”  
_I forgive you._

 

“I know you’re for real.”  
_I love you._

 

“I wanted you not to be dead.”  
_I love you._

 

“Of course you’re my best friend.”  
_I love you._

 

“I can’t think of a single thing to say.”  
_I love you._

 

“Anyone but you.”  
_I’m hurt. I love you._

 

“That chance doesn’t last forever.”  
_I wasted mine. I love you._

 

\--

 

“I love you.”

All those times John declared _I love you_ in absolute silence… it had become second nature to conceal, deny, deflect.

But now, the words just spill out of his mouth, unbidden.

Sherlock freezes, tea mug halfway to his mouth. A beat later, he puts the mug down and clears his throat.

“I… love you too, John, of course. You are my best friend.” Every word is carefully placed, his face attempting a nonchalant expression, eyes flicking nervously between an undefined point on the rug and John’s face.

It all clicks into place for John. He wonders momentarily if this is how Sherlock feels when he has just deduced something brilliant.

“You love me too.”

“I just said so,” Sherlock sniffs.

“No, I mean. You _really_ love me too.” John knows the game is up, and there’s no backtracking his confession. There’s no way to go other than let this unravel.

Sherlock purses his lips and the ice breaks. His eyes soften and the torrent of emotions he’s been holding in a precarious dam flows over his face. “I… I do, John.”

They lock eyes. An unspoken agreement.

John slides down from his chair to his knees and cautiously lays hands on Sherlock’s thighs. He feels the muscles flex and tremble ever so slightly, and Sherlock’s fingers go to his shoulders, caress his neck, cup his jaw, comb his hair. He tilts his head down and John meets him halfway. Tender, soft lips press together; they exchange small sighs, shuddered breaths, hushed whimpers.

Somehow, they tumble in a haze into Sherlock’s bedroom. Their kisses deepen and become more urgent, sliding into an edge of desperation; hands roam over chests, clumsy fingers unbutton shirts, flies are unzipped. John is drunk and dizzy on lust, and by the look of it, Sherlock isn’t much better, his crystal-clear eyes brimming with want, colour high on his cheeks, and a faint sheen of sweat gathering on his forehead. They collapse onto Sherlock’s bed, trousers and pants unceremoniously shoved low on thighs, and they reach for each other, trembling hands stroking erections, smooth skin sliding over hardness, and John wants to crawl inside this beautiful man and melt into him, his thoughts are scattered all over the place and there’s only Sherlock’s hands and Sherlock’s mouth and heat and friction and panting and _god_ he is coming over Sherlock’s lovely large hands, and for once it is Sherlock who follows him.

 

\--

 

“I love you too.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
